Child's Play
by Mandelene
Summary: Alfred isn't sick. He just sees the world differently, but there will always be those who don't understand. Thankfully, he has two parents that do.
1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:** This story was requested by **peppermenttea** on Tumblr. If you'd like to submit a request, you can reach me through my blog, MandeleneFics!

* * *

 _San Diego, California, 1970-1975_

Alfred is not like other children.

Francis and Arthur begin to notice this very early on, less than a year after they adopt their wriggling, four-month-old twin boys. Well, technically speaking, Arthur adopts the twins, and Francis has to remain invisible in front of the law because the law is complicated, and love isn't love unless a court can tell you it is, apparently. A boy can't have two fathers, but Francis is still there, possessing all of the qualities of a father but without the paperwork saying he is.

None of it makes any sense, but sometimes, it's best to accept the nonsensical things as they are.

"Alfred! Alfred! There's my sweet _cher_."

It begins with little oddities, like how Alfred doesn't respond to his name as quickly as his brother, Matthew, does, or how he cries often and loudly. At first, they accept this as a mere difference in personality. All the boy needs is more time to adjust to his new surroundings—to his new family. God knows the turmoil the poor thing has been through.

But soon after, he starts a habit of forming intense attachments to certain toys. Playing with him is near impossible because he always seems to be in his own world, choosing to keep to himself. One time, Francis takes the boy's bunny away and tries to give him a new stuffed animal to try out instead, but Alfred immediately howls bloody murder. So much for throwing the ratty thing into the laundry machine, let alone the garbage.

"Alfred, look at Daddy. Hey, there…"

But he won't look. He _never_ looks.

Arthur decides to bring up the strange behavior at the boys' next check-up at the doctor's. At the time, the boys are slightly over a year old, and Matthew is given the usual, clean bill of health before being set back into his stroller so the doctor can take a look at Alfred.

Even examining the child is a nightmare. He wails as soon as he's touched, and he flails and flaps around tirelessly, refusing to hold still.

"It's all right, Alfred. Shh, the doctor is just trying to help," Arthur coos, but it doesn't calm him. Fortunately, he has the boy's favorite bunny with him, and as soon as he hands it to him, his whimpers quiet, and he's too distracted to care what's being done to him.

In the end, the doctor explains that some children are merely more inhibited than others, and that with time and patience, Alfred will be just fine.

Arthur, however, isn't so easily swayed. He decides to get a second-opinion from a specialist in early-childhood development, and that's when he finally gets some answers.

The specialist only has to observe Alfred's behavior for a single minute to give a diagnosis.

Autism, an illness without a concrete definition. It's different for everyone, it's unclear what the exact causes are, and there's no reliable treatment.

"Incurable?" Francis asks later that night, pale and hysterical. "Then we just have to watch as it gets worse?"

"There's behavioral therapy, but it only prevents the onset of more severe symptoms," Arthur explains as the boys crawl around their playpen. Matthew is babbling happily away, already beginning to form basic syllables while Alfred remains completely silent and keeps his gaze secured down on his bunny, an unreadable expression on his face. "I'll schedule an appointment."

Every attempt they make at helping the toddler manages to somehow backfire. The sessions are exhausting for Alfred, and often leave him more frustrated than when he came in. He rarely smiles, never giggles, won't look up regardless of how many times one tries to engage with him, and overall, seems unhappy and, frankly, miserable. It becomes increasingly clear that Alfred is in no way, shape, or form the same boy Matthew is.

The boys reach their third birthday, and still, Alfred is unable to utter a single, coherent word. He can't follow instructions and throws violent fits that aren't remotely considered healthy or expected. No, his tantrums aren't the same as Matthew's. Matthew will cry and fuss over not being able to have a cookie from the cookie jar. Alfred will fuss and cry over seemingly nothing.

Further problems arise when the staff at the daycare is at a loss for what to do as well. Alfred won't share with the other children, tucks himself away in his own corner, and can't be coaxed into interacting, even though he attends weekly therapy sessions.

Ultimately, Francis and Arthur are left with no choice but to remove Alfred from daycare, especially once the other children begin commenting on his behavior. And when they enroll Matthew into pre-school the following year, they must come to terms with the fact that Alfred will not be joining him because there's no conceivable way the boy will be able to sit through a six hour school day for five days a week, especially not when his teacher will be busy tending to twenty or more other students.

"He's suffering, Arthur."

"You think I can't tell?"

Alfred needs round-the-clock care, and so, Arthur quits his job as a copy-editor at the local publishing company. Someone needs to be home 24/7, and Francis's career in design pays better and should be enough to keep them going.

In the mornings, Arthur gets the boys into the car and drops Matthew off at school, and then he returns home with Alfred, where he makes feeble attempts at homeschooling him. It all sounds lovely and coordinated in theory, but half of the time, Arthur has no clue what he's doing, and he's afraid he's somehow doing more harm than good.

That said, being around Alfred constantly allows him to pick up on his body language and learn how to more effectively communicate with him. He quickly realizes Alfred responds better to visual demonstrations of actions rather than verbal commands, and so, he starts with simple things to keep Alfred's mind stimulated, like coloring.

Patience is key. Alfred is quite capable of doing things on his own once he's been shown how to complete a task a few times. He even begins sounding out words. Most of them are made up, but it's welcome progress, and Arthur is relieved to finally hear his child's voice without sobs or screams getting in the way.

Despite this, they still have their fair share of bad days. Very bad days.

Like when Alfred knocks over his sippy cup and gets apple juice all over the kitchen table. Arthur makes quick work of cleaning it up, but something triggers one of Alfred's infamous tantrums, and soon, he's banging a fist on the table and shouting meaningless words, causing a big racket.

And Arthur, who has already dealt with four prior tantrums in the span of just two days, lets his patience wear thin. He grabs the boy's arms to still him, but that just makes Alfred fight even harder, and, god damn it, if the boy would just _tell_ him what's wrong, he'd be able to fix it.

But Alfred can't tell him, and it's not his fault. Even so, it's all very exhausting for the both of them.

The boy thrashes in his grip and lands a few kicks to Arthur's waist, but Arthur's more concerned that Alfred will injure himself.

"Alfred, please. Stop it! What's wrong? Look at me!"

The more he yells, the more Alfred cries, and it kills him to know his child is in pain—that he's trapped somewhere in his own mind—and there's nothing he can do to get through to him.

He lowers his voice, releases Alfred's arms, and buries his face in his hands, overwhelmed. Is this how it's always going to be? Is every day going to be a constant battle from now on? Alfred's hurting. Hurting more and more by the hour.

The tantrum ceases as suddenly as it starts, and everything is quiet again aside from the soft music coming from the kitchen radio.

He's a horrible father. The absolute worst.

"Ob-la… Ob-la-di," Alfred chirps.

Arthur rubs his face as he leans against the counter and blinks at his son, intrigued. "What was that, my boy?"

"Ob-la-da… Ob-la-di."

For a moment, he thinks the child is just babbling to himself again, but then the song on the radio increases its tempo, and Arthur finally realizes that the boy isn't babbling after all. He's singing. Singing to The Beatles. He's mimicking the radio.

"That's right, Alfred," Arthur says, heart soaring with realization. "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on…"

Alfred claps his hands, suddenly overjoyed that Arthur is singing along with him. "Ob-la-di!"

"You know, I'd never imagined you to be a fan of the Beatles," Arthur jokes, and it's such a simple thing—a little fragment of a song—but he feels closer to Alfred than he has in months. They have finally stumbled upon a shared understanding of something.

They're communicating, no matter how briefly.

"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da, life goes on," Arthur repeats again, and Alfred shakes with bubbly giggles, smiling from ear to ear.

Arthur would give anything to keep that smile on his face. This is his son. His beautiful, laughing son, and he is perfect.

He isn't like other children, but that's okay. He doesn't have to be.

* * *

People talk. It's a natural part of life. Arthur has come to terms with this. Francis has not.

On a refreshing autumn day, they take a family trip to the park, and while the boys play on the jungle gym, Francis and Arthur sit themselves on a bench directly across from the twins, grateful for a moment of rest. The sun is out, there's a mild breeze ruffling the leaves on the trees, and the boys are getting along nicely for the meantime.

But there's always something that sends things spiraling downhill.

The hissing whispers of the two families perched on the next bench over is hard to ignore.

"It's _unhealthy_ , that's what it is. Donna, darling, don't let Michael too close. Lord knows what's wrong with that boy," one of the mothers says.

Instantly, Francis's knuckles whiten as he clutches the edge of their bench with splintering strength, and Arthur puts a hand on his shoulder, squeezing hard.

"He might be dangerous. He belongs in an asylum," another woman adds.

"But you know why he is the way he is, don't you? Is it any surprise? Look at the parents."

Francis moves to stand, but Arthur yanks him back down.

"Don't cause a scene," Arthur growls. "Leave it."

Francis, red in the face, is already blinded by his sizzling fury. "No one speaks about my child that way."

"He's my child, too, and the last thing we need to do is draw more attention to ourselves," Arthur reasons before directing his focus back to the twins. Unsurprisingly, despite Matthew's efforts to be inclusive, Alfred is now playing in the sandbox all by himself.

Arthur sighs and approaches them both, a practiced, warm smile on his face. "What are you boys up to?"

"I'm going all the way up!" Matthew exclaims as he climbs the rope wall leading to the uppermost part of the jungle gym.

"Watch your step, lad."

"I will!"

"And you, Alfred? What are you doing?"

Alfred doesn't even notice him.

"Daddy! Daddy, look, I'm at the top!" Matthew shouts.

"That's very nice, Matthew," Arthur says absently before crouching down next to the sandbox. "Are you building a castle, Alfred? Would you like some help?"

The boy makes a contented noise, and so, Arthur sits with him and shows him how to use a plastic toy bucket to create a castle.

"I can make a castle, too!" Matthew announces, hopping down to join them. He plops himself into the sandbox and snatches the bucket away just as Alfred is making a grab for it, and within seconds, Alfred bursts into tears.

"Matthew, you have to wait your turn. Alfred was using that. Hand it back to him," Arthur scolds, a little puzzled by how brash Matthew is being today. Normally, he's as bashful as a lamb.

"But he doesn't know how to use it anyway!"

"He's trying to learn."

Thankfully, Francis swoops in to save the day. He lifts a drooling, tear-soaked Alfred into his arms, swings him around in a little aerial dance, and says, "Papa's here. I love you to the moon and back. How does a pretzel sound? Hmm? We'll get one for your father and brother, too, okay? Let's go."

"I want to come, too!" Matthew insists, running after them.

Arthur watches the three of them saunter away, brows furrowed, and when he hears the family from earlier make another snide remark along the lines of "imagine the trauma those boys must be going through," he turns to them and glares.

* * *

Matthew's pretty sure Daddy doesn't love him.

It's a reasonable conclusion. They don't talk much anymore, and when they do, Dad's always distracted because Alfred always needs something or is making a fuss. He never seems to have any time, and so, Matthew progressively tries harder and harder to get him to notice him. With Papa always at work and Dad tending to Al, he's often left lower on his parents' list of priorities, and it's not fair.

But he has a plan to make everything better.

It starts with working extra hard to make sure Ms. Elizabeta gives him one of the lead roles in the kindergarten Christmas play. He rehearses his lines over and over again until they flow naturally and roll off of his tongue without him having to think about it. If he does really well, Daddy and Papa will see what an amazing and talented kid he is, and maybe they'll want to spend more time with him.

It takes an entire month of preparation and practice, but December finally arrives, and Matthew's big debut begins. Tonight, he will control the stage. He'll be the greatest five-year-old Santa Claus the world has ever seen.

One thing he isn't ready for, however, is the crippling stage fright he gets at the last minute. While Papa, Dad, and Al take their seats with the other parents, Matthew has to take big breaths in and out to stop the shakes in his hands and the sweat from collecting on the back of his neck. He can't blow this. All eyes are on him.

The curtains are pulled open and the school's darkened auditorium appears. Matthew can see his parents and Al sitting in one of the middle rows, and with renewed determination, he pours his whole heart out into the first act of the performance, even though he feels like he's melting from behind his fake beard and itchy costume.

It's all flawless.

Until Alfred ruins it.

Near the halfway point of the show, his brother starts getting frustrated over something—perhaps it's the loud music or the bright stage-lights—and makes audible noises of complaint that attract the curiosity of those sitting around his family. Dad gently leads Alfred out of the auditorium and disappears through the exit, and now, only Papa is left to cheer him on.

Matthew is so preoccupied with watching the scene unfold that he loses track of what's being said on the stage, and his lines jumble up in his throat and get scrambled. He completely blanks, and his face flushes with embarrassment as his classmates and the parents look at him to speak, prompting him to say something.

Within seconds, he runs backstage, tears running down his face in humiliation as the crowd in the auditorium gasps at his disappearance.

"Ladies and gentlemen, we're going to take a short intermission," he hears Ms. Elizabeta say over the microphone.

He sits on the floor near the storage room and draws his knees up to his chest, sobbing. This was not how things were supposed to go. Once again, it's all _Alfred's_ fault. Why couldn't he just have a normal brother like everyone else?

"Mathieu? What happened out there, _mon chou_?"

Papa's found him already. He was always good at hide-and-seek.

"Go away," Matthew tells him, hating how rude he sounds but too distraught to try another tone.

"Everyone's waiting for you to finish the show."

"I c-can't, Papa."

"Why not?"

"I just can't."

Papa makes a tutting noise and sits next to him, one hand on his back. "I know that's not true. You've been waiting for this for a long time. No one can play the role of Santa Clause as well as you can."

"You're lying."

"Why would I lie? Come now, we don't want to keep everyone waiting. You can't leave your audience with such a cliffhanger! They need to know whether or not Santa succeeds in saving Christmas for the children of San Diego."

Papa ruffles his hair encouragingly and guides him to where the rest of his class is standing behind the now closed curtains.

Ms. Elizabeta is relieved to see him, and she gives a brief pep-talk of her own before she announces the show must go on.

The lights come back, the music chimes with enthusiasm, and Matthew watches at the curtains come gliding open again.

His eyes immediately flit over to the middle row of seats. Dad and Alfred still aren't back.

He swallows around the rock in his throat and delivers his lines anyway, and on the walk home that night, when Dad apologizes for missing the final act, he'll merely nod his head and pretend as though it didn't matter to him anyway.


	2. Chapter 2

**Author's Note:** Thank you so much to everyone who left reviews on the previous chapter. I'm amazed by how many of you were able to relate to this story, and I admire the courage of those who shared their personal experiences with me. Stay wonderful. :D

* * *

 _San Diego, California 1976_

After an arduous process of trial and error, Arthur can now confidently say that he and Alfred have mastered the delicate art of shopping trips. They're no longer a chaotic fest of tantrums and broken dreams. Eggs, apples, and juice cartons haven't been harmed for weeks since Arthur acclimated the boy to the routine of getting groceries.

Every Monday after dropping Matthew off at school, Arthur drives to the supermarket, whereupon Alfred is placed into the designated children's seat of a shopping cart. Twenty minutes is usually the maximum extent of the child's patience, and so, Arthur knows he must work quickly. He walks through the produce section with a mission in mind, and he maps out the most efficient route for getting all of the things they'll need.

Once upon a time, he left all things food-related in Francis's hands, but given his husband's recent work schedule, expecting him to handle dinner every night just isn't realistic anymore. Thus, they've all had to make do with Arthur's minimalistic culinary abilities.

"How does spaghetti sound?" Arthur asks Alfred as he sets his sights on the bread and pasta aisle. Fortunately, the boy is being well-behaved today.

"Hamburger," Alfred responds simply, turning over a cereal box in his hands—cornflakes with bits of dried strawberry mixed in, which is Matthew's favorite.

"No, no hamburgers," Arthur tells him with an amused smile. "We need _real_ food for dinner."

"Hamburger," Alfred repeats, insisting.

The boy's certainly been making progress with his words. Arthur would prefer it if he would speak in full sentences, but there's no need to rush him. Single worded responses and the occasional phrase aren't ideal, but they're better than nothing.

Arthur cards a hand through Alfred's hair, drawing a little laugh out of him. "I said we aren't having hamburgers, and that's my final decision on the matter. Now where do you think we'll find the tomato sauce?"

There are, of course, inquisitive stares no matter where they go, and Arthur worries that one day, Alfred will notice, if he hasn't already. But the best thing they can do for now is pretend the other shoppers don't exist.

After filling their shopping cart without much trouble, they head for the cash register, and Alfred helps put their items on the counter, happy to help. He's being so cooperative that Arthur decides they should stop by the ice cream parlor on their way home. It's a cozy, little place with an outdoor seating area—perfect for unwinding and watching the sparrows zip back and forth between the trees.

When they get there, Alfred picks a table, sits down, and licks at his chocolate double-scoop cone with gusto. Part of it, naturally, ends up on the corners of his mouth and on his chin.

Arthur sits next to him with his own ice cream (pistachio) at hand and sighs as his shoulders relax and his mind slows its racing thoughts for a moment. "These errands have taken their toll on me, Alfred. I daresay I'm getting old."

"Hamburger," Alfred mumbles softly.

"I'm concerned about this fast food obsession of yours. One cannot subsist solely off of hamburgers, I fear."

Alfred blinks owlishly, gaze focused on Arthur's ice cream.

"Would you like some of mine?" Arthur asks, holding his ice cream out to Alfred.

"Green," Alfred says, taking the cone.

"Yes, it's green. Very good."

Alfred takes a lick of it, smacks his lips, and hands it back.

Arthur laughs. "Not your cup of tea, hmm?"

Alfred thinks for a moment, and then hands his chocolate ice cream to Arthur as well.

"What's wrong? You don't want any more?"

Alfred shakes his head. "Daddy, eat."

He's sharing.

Arthur takes a second to feel touched. Obediently, he tries some of Alfred's ice cream before returning it to him, causing the boy to giggle with unfettered delight. "Thank you, poppet."

A fleeting second passes, and Alfred's eyes are downcast again. Just like that, it's as though a switch has been flipped, and he's in his own world once more, oblivious.

* * *

 _1977_

"You have to put this one on top, like _this_ ," Matthew demonstrates, building a fortress out of wooden blocks. Alfred is sitting quietly beside him, watching with great interest.

"This is where the king is going to stay," Matthew continues. He's a fairly competent architect for a seven-year-old. "And his soldiers are gonna be here, where the smaller tower is."

"Ob-la-di," Alfred replies.

"And we're gonna put a flag at the top. I haven't made it yet, but—"

"Ob-la-da."

"Dad! He's singing that stupid song again!"

Dad's disapproval can be heard from his and Papa's bedroom across the hall. "If he wants to sing, let him."

"But it's annoying!"

"Matthew, I don't have time for this right now. Get along with your brother for a few minutes, please."

Matthew frowns and grumbles under his breath, "Yeah, you don't have time for anything anymore."

"Ob-la-di," Alfred chimes.

"Can you stop it?"

"Ob-la-da."

"Stop singing."

"Ob-la-di."

Matthew growls and focuses his efforts on the construction of the fortress instead. He picks up another block and balances it carefully on the roof of the king's quarters, careful not to jostle anything in the process.

And that's when Alfred decides to touch one of the blocks.

Matthew watches with horrific realization as the fortress collapses, making a huge racket as all of the blocks scatter themselves in a heap on his and Alfred's bedroom floor. This is _exactly_ why he's been begging for his own room.

He knows he shouldn't yell at Alfred, but the anger is so overpowering that he grabs his brother by the shoulders and screams, "Look what you did! You ruined everything! You always ruin everything, you _retard_!"

There's a second of utter silence before Alfred's eyes grow wide with fear, and then, he bursts out crying, red-faced.

"Matthew!" Dad scolds as he comes into the room, setting down a basket full of laundry. He's wearing his you-can't-even-imagine-how-much-trouble-you're-in scowl. "Nose in the corner, now!"

Matthew can feel his stomach dropping in regret. His anger burns itself out, leaving him with a strangely hollow sensation in his chest. "But he—!"

" _Don't_ _test my patience_. Not another word out of you, until I say you can speak."

Conceding, he stands in the corner as instructed, staring at the blue pastel wall as Dad crouches down and tries to get Alfred to stop wailing, which isn't an easy task.

"Shh, stop that. You're okay," Dad assures, and Matthew can hear the sound of clothes brushing together as Dad hugs Alfred and rubs his back. "Your brother's merely being naughty."

Matthew huffs. He wouldn't have had to yell at Alfred if he hadn't destroyed the fortress he'd worked so hard on. Why does his brother always get a free pass for everything? Why doesn't he get in trouble for messing things up? What's with all of the special treatment?

"Matthew, come here."

He sighs and trudges over to Dad, arms folded petulantly across his chest.

"Apologize to Alfred."

"But—!"

"Apologize. I won't say it again," Dad cautions, and Matthew can sense the severity of the threat behind his words.

"He doesn't understand anyway."

Dad frowns, brows drawn together. "That's not true. Of course he understands."

"How do you know?"

Dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lowers his voice, sounding even sterner as a result. "Tell him you're sorry. We're going to have a long chat regarding your behavior lately when Papa gets home."

Matthew grits his teeth, looks down at Alfred's swollen, bug-like eyes, and grumbles, "Sorry…"

"Sorry for what?" Dad prompts.

"For yelling, and for calling you names."

Surprisingly, Alfred meets Matthew's gaze and says, plainly, "Okay... Matt?"

Matthew swallows painfully and nibbles on his bottom lip, arms now tucked behind his back. "Yeah?"

"S-Sorry," Alfred stammers, stumbling momentarily over the word. There's a kind of recognition and attentiveness in his features, and Matthew knows his brother isn't simply repeating things back to him.

"It's okay."

Satisfied, Dad nods at them both, and then tells Matthew to go and wait in the living room for what will undoubtedly be a lengthy lecture.

* * *

Both Papa and Dad are disappointed in him, and frankly, Matthew's not too proud of himself either. He doesn't know what it is, but something about Alfred always manages to bring out the worst in him. He never used to get punished because he never gave Papa or Dad a reason to be upset with him.

Now Alfred's coloring in the kitchen, and Matthew's finally got Dad and Papa to himself, although this isn't how he planned to get their attention.

" _Mathieu_ , the way you treated Alfred today is unacceptable," Papa begins, uncharacteristically firm. "You know you have to be patient with him."

Dad nods in agreement. "What troubles us in particular is the language you used today. It was very rude and offensive, and we won't tolerate those kinds of words in this house. Do we make ourselves clear?"

"Yes, Dad."

" _Mon lapin_ , Alfred is your brother, and you must treat him with the respect he deserves," Papa adds.

"I know, but," Matthew falters, scared that if he continues talking, he'll give his parents more of a reason to punish him. "Alfred's always making mistakes and doing things wrong, but you guys never yell at him. A-And you're both busy with him all of the time, and you never have time to play with _me_ or take me to learn how to ride my bike like I wanted to or—"

He cuts himself off because there are tears falling down his cheeks, and he touches them in astonishment, embarrassed by what a baby he's being. He's not going to be taken seriously if he doesn't assert himself.

"Oh, _mon chou_ ," Papa coos, wrapping his arms around his shoulders. "We have time for you."

"No, you don't!"

Dad, meanwhile, stands before them and tries to come up with something to say to make everything better. He puts a hand on Matthew's knee, takes in a deep breath, and explains, "Matthew, as you know, Alfred sometimes needs extra care from Papa and me. However, that doesn't mean we love you any less. We care immensely about you _both_. Papa and I admit we don't always have time to do certain things, and we have made some mistakes in the past. We'll try to do better in the future and make more time."

That's what they have to say. They'll say he matters to them, but tomorrow, he'll go right back to being invisible. He has stopped trusting them.

"Mathieu, you're being selfish," Papa says, and Matthew wants to scream but doesn't.

He sits there listlessly and waits for the verdict on his punishment. At the end of it all, he's stuck with an early bedtime for two weeks and whatever chores Dad decides to give him until he loses his "short temper."

And so, instead of feeling as though the issue has been resolved, Matthew is made to feel he must passively accept being forgotten lest he's punished.

He goes to bed that night with a pillow smooshed against his face forcefully and cries. He can feel Alfred's eyes on him from across the room, wordlessly asking him what's wrong, and Matthew's self-control goes slipping through his fingers again as he lifts his head, turns to his brother spitefully, and says, "This is all your fault."

Alfred, naturally, doesn't respond, but Matthew swears he sees a flicker of hurt in his twin's eyes. He might've imagined it.

* * *

The whispers from the neighborhood are getting louder.

"Arthur, maybe this is a bad idea after all."

"Would you stop it? We're not going to shut ourselves away. We're going out to dinner like any other family."

Matthew watches Dad and Papa bicker in the hallway, wishing they could get a move on because his stomach is beginning to grumble. They fight over the tiniest things sometimes.

"Why can't we celebrate my birthday here, at home?" Papa asks, sounding a little deflated.

"Because you won't eat my cooking anymore, and I'm not about to let you slave away in the kitchen on your birthday," Dad responds firmly, leaving no room for dissent. He helps Alfred tie his shoes, grabs the car keys, and swings the front door open with a pointed flourish. "Let's go."

Papa murmurs something under his breath in French and then adds, "How did I end up with such a stubborn man?"

"How did I end up with such an insufferable frog?" Dad cajoles back, a sly smile on his face. "Come now, it's only once a year. You're supposed to enjoy yourself tonight. At the moment, you look like you're anticipating a root canal."

" _Oui_ , it's because I don't like being reminded I'm yet another year older."

"Well, you'll have to endure it for at least a few hours."

They finally get into the car and drive to the restaurant, which is no more than twenty minutes away. When they arrive, Matthew's surprised to see how nice the place looks from the outside. It's definitely fancier than any restaurant they've been to in the past.

Apparently, they have reservations, and so, they're seated quickly at a table by the window from where they can see the luminescent, lively street just outside. Now Matthew knows why Dad has started working at a bookstore on the weekends when Papa's home. He's been saving up.

"I hate you," Papa whispers across the table to Dad. "I hate you for wasting money on me."

"Hush. Don't be ungrateful," Dad replies, rolling his eyes. He seems to be enjoying how flustered and annoyed Papa is with him. "Normally when someone does something for another individual, that individual is a bit more appreciative."

Papa gnashes his teeth. "Y-You shouldn't have…"

"Why not?"

"Because… Because I don't deserve this."

"That's only one opinion," Dad says smoothly as a waiter comes over to ask if they'd like any drinks.

Dad orders some wine for Papa and himself, and then turns to Matthew. "What would you like, love?"

Matthew looks down at the children's menu in front of him and fidgets in his seat a little when everyone's gaze rests on him. "Apple juice, please."

The waiter scribbles it down on his notepad, and everyone's focus shifts to Alfred, who is sitting directly beside Papa. His head is turned in the opposite direction as something outside catches his interest.

"Alfred," Papa says, trying to coax him out of his daydream. "Tell the nice waiter what you would like to drink. What flavor juice do you want?"

Alfred does eventually turn around, but he purses his lips together instead of speaking.

The waiter, fortunately, is incredibly patient, and his smile remains glued to his face.

"Look, let's see what they have, hmm?" Papa suggests, skimming the menu. "Fruit punch, apple, grape, or cranberry?"

Having specific options seems to help, and Alfred responds immediately this time, "Fruit punch."

Thus, the first phase of the dinner passes by peacefully. Within a few minutes, the waiter returns with their drinks, and they all order their food. Papa and Dad pick out some kind of seafood, Matthew settles on the roast chicken with vegetables (he'd rather take the dish without the broccoli, but Papa and Dad insist he eat something healthy). Alfred, of course, asks for hamburger, and is a little upset when he's told he can't have any, but he doesn't complain for long.

There aren't any tantrums, Papa eventually loosens up after his second glass of wine and allows himself a laugh and a smile, and Matthew talks about school and the book he's reading for class. The food is undeniably great, the service is quick, and they order Papa a tiramisu birthday cake for dessert, adorned with candles and extra frosting.

"Make a wish," Dad reminds, and Papa thinks for a couple of seconds before blowing out the candles.

Then, Papa leans over to give Dad a peck on the cheek, and suddenly, someone makes a disgruntled noise from the table behind them.

"Disgusting," a man says, and Matthew feels his throat tighten.

What's so wrong with a papa and a daddy kissing each other? He becomes oddly protective of his parents, despite the disagreements he's had with them recently.

Papa and Dad ignore it, and the longer they remain silent, the more affronted Matthew becomes. How can they just sit there without saying anything to the man? How can they let themselves be insulted like that?

Invigorated with a burst of courage, Matthew stands up from his chair, looks straight into the eyes of the man, and asks, "Why're you so mean?"

Heart ramming wildly against his ribcage, he's made aware of how small he is. He's not a very imposing seven-year-old. Generally, he avoids putting himself in unnecessary social situations, but he's been changing a lot lately, and frankly, he's surprised by his own bravado, too. It's unlike him.

Dad puts a strong hand on his shoulder and tries to get him to sit down. "It's all right."

"No, it's not!" Matthew tells him, tears in his eyes. "He shouldn't be allowed to say that kind of stuff!"

The man from the other table scowls, "You people are sick."

Bravery crumbling into helplessness, Matthew feels his breath hitch against his will, and Dad successfully makes him sit. "Don't let it bother you, poppet."

"B-But—!"

"It won't change anything," Dad whispers, brushing his hair back with a gentle hand. Then, he looks to Papa and says urgently, "Let's get the bill."

They're out of the restaurant as soon as most of the cake is gone, and they walk back to the car. Dad drives, since he's only had one glass of wine, and when the atmosphere is too heavy to bear, Matthew says, "Why didn't that man want you guys kissing?"

Both Dad and Papa sigh, and they exchange a look, wondering who should try to explain first.

"Your father and I are different," Papa states, "and people don't like those who are different."

It's not the best explanation, but it's something. Matthew mulls it over for a second, and from beside him, Alfred begins to mumble.

"Different," Alfred parrots, chewing on his thumb. "Different… Different like me?"

" _Oui_ , you're different in your own way, too, Alfred," Papa agrees, looking sad.

"But being different can be a good thing," Dad jumps in.

Alfred smiles brightly. "Different is good?"

It's the most his brother has said all week, and Matthew can tell Dad and Papa are impressed with the development.

"Yes, different is good, love," Dad assures, hands relaxing on the steering wheel. There's a soft smile on his face now, too, and soon, Papa joins them.

Different is good.

Matthew says it over and over again in his head, trying to convince himself, but he can't get the image of the man at the restaurant out of his memory. The way his lip was curled, the dark look in his eyes, and the stark hatred in his expression makes him shiver.

He casts a sidelong look at Alfred, sees his gleaming, smiling face, and feels a little less cold.


	3. Chapter 3

_Be strong. Be firm._

Francis is in charge today, which means a number of things. For starters, as early as eight o'clock on a Saturday morning, the boys manage to take advantage of his lenient breakfast regulations by dumping half a bottle of maple syrup on their waffles when his back is turned, something which would never happen under Arthur's watch. Unbeknownst to him, he's somehow established himself as the fun, easy-going parent—a reputation which he doesn't entirely mind, so long as the boys don't get the wrong idea and expect him to act like a pushover.

Today is his opportunity to prove he can be just as tough as his husband. Arthur's earned himself a day off from parenting duties and work, seeing as he's down with a stuffy nose and a bad headache, which means Francis must maintain control and order until the man is well again. How hard can it be?

He wouldn't have even known about Arthur's poor health if he hadn't caught him swallowing ibuprofen and stifling sneezes in the bathroom earlier that same morning. After a round of quarreling, Francis had miraculously convinced him to stay indoors, something he would not have been able to accomplish had Arthur not felt miserable enough to oblige.

So now, he's on his own, ready to showcase his abilities. First, he plans to take the boys to the park, so Matthew can learn to ride his bike once and for all. Then, they'll go out for lunch, have a scintillating discussion about life, and return home, where Francis will get to work on making dinner and, if time permits, help nurse Arthur back to health so all can be swell once more.

Even though breakfast didn't go quite as he would have wanted, the whole day is still ahead of them, and Francis has high hopes. Very high hopes.

After clearing the table of sticky plates doused in maple syrup, he makes sure the boys put on their sweaters to ward off the autumn chill. Alfred squirms and stomps about, not enthusiastic about having to wear his hoodie.

"We don't want you to catch a cold, do we?" Francis reasons with him. "Look what happened to your father."

Fortunately, Alfred relents, and just as they're all crossing the threshold to leave the house, Arthur comes padding down the stairs in a wrinkled t-shirt and flannel pants. He doesn't appear to be too worse for wear, aside from being a shade paler than usual.

"Are you sure you can manage both boys?" Arthur asks, and Francis makes a derisive noise.

"What kind of question is _that_? I can watch over my children, but I won't be watching over _you_ if you collapse from overworking yourself. Go to bed."

Arthur shakes his head and frowns. "Did you remember to—?"

"Go and sleep. The boys are better-behaved than you are," Francis snaps, waving a hand for Arthur to go upstairs.

"Bring Alfred's—"

"Goodbye, Arthur. Everything will be fine."

He and the boys walk out the door before the man can get the chance to continue fretting, effectively ignoring his concerns.

That's his first mistake of the day. Rule number one: Arthur almost always has a valid point.

* * *

Alfred begins acting up as soon as they reach the park, murmuring half-words to himself as Francis tries to absently quiet him. It works temporarily—just long enough for Francis to forget it was a problem in the first place. His full effort is extended to Matthew as the boy climbs onto his bike and tries to get a feel for it.

"Now, Mathieu, remember to sit up straight and find your center of balance," Francis explains as Alfred stands to the side and starts murmuring to himself again, visibly bothered. "And when you feel like you've steadied yourself, start pedaling slowly."

Matthew bites his tongue in concentration and tries to follow the advice, but it's not as easy as it sounds. There's a lot of wobbling involved, and Francis does his best to be encouraging the entire time, even though he can sense Matthew's fear of falling or crashing. He places a hand on the boy's back to support him, and when Matthew's confident he won't tumble sideways right away, he begins to pedal forward while Francis jogs alongside him, still holding him steady.

" _Oui_. That's excellent, _mon chou_ ," Francis praises, grinning. "At this rate, you'll be competing in the _Tour de France_ in no time!"

Alfred, having been left a few yards behind, but still in Francis's line of sight, finds the distance between them upsetting, and he lets out a series of cries of complaint, at which point Papa is forced to turn around.

It's his second mistake. Rule number two: Never leave a child midway through a task.

The hand he has on Matthew's back slips away for a second, and within moments of him being distracted by Alfred, Matthew leans too far forward and loses his balance before toppling onto the dirt path hard enough for the breath to be torn out of his lungs.

"Mathieu!"

The boy doesn't dare to move, but when he sees a bit of blood well up and ooze over his scraped palms, he wails shamelessly, too shaken to get up.

Francis swiftly lifts him into a standing position, brushes the dirt off of his jeans, and kisses the boy's forehead, thanking his lucky stars that Matthew had his helmet on. "I'm so sorry, _mon lapin_. Let me see…"

He takes Matthew's hands in his and surveys the damage, pleased to see the scrapes are superficial and nothing that would require more serious attention. "We'll put bandages on the cuts at home. Don't cry."

Matthew sniffles, and Francis gives him another kiss, this time on his knuckles, trying to chase away some of the pain. He stops crying, but as soon as he has calmed, Alfred picks up from where his brother left off.

Francis clicks his tongue, sweeps over to Alfred to put a hand on his trembling shoulder, and tries to figure out what's wrong this time. "Be a good boy for Papa, and don't cry, Alfred."

"Bunny," Alfred whimpers. "I wan' bunny."

"Bunny? What bunny?"

From in front of them, Matthew scrubs a finger under his puffy eyes and says, "He means his stuffed bunny from home. You didn't bring it, and he always takes it with him when Dad brings us to the park."

Francis knits his brows together and raises them when he recalls the toy. So that's what Arthur was trying to warn him about. "Ahh, I see. You can play with your bunny at home, Alfred."

"Bunny."

"Not now."

"Bunny!" Alfred shouts, fixated on the dilemma.

"I can't get you your bunny now."

Alfred shrieks, signaling a tantrum, and Francis takes in a deep breath and mentally counts down from ten, reminding himself to stay composed. Now he has one son who's injured and another who's equally upset.

He takes one of Alfred's hands and begins to lead the way home because Matthew doesn't seem too keen on giving his bike a second chance at the moment, and Alfred is only going to grow more distraught with time.

And, _mon dieu_ , Francis is tired. He understands now just how much Arthur must have to deal with on his own when he's at work throughout the week. Having a set of extra hands around makes a world of difference, but being alone means having no one to turn to for support.

The madness doesn't end even when they make it through the front door of the house. Alfred's still being dramatic, Matthew's scrapes need to be tended to, and Francis can only deal with one crisis at a time.

A grouchy Arthur comes strolling into the kitchen barely five minutes later, investigating as Francis applies the last bit of antibacterial ointment to Matthew's cuts and wraps them. Arthur quickly notes the widespread hysteria going on and helps out by dealing with Alfred.

"Alfred, look at me," Arthur instructs, voice a little nasally. "Why are you upset?"

"I wan' bunny!"

"That's what I thought," he replies, shooting Francis an I-told-you-so expression. He walks into the living room, locates the infernal bunny that caused this entire mess, and places it into Alfred's awaiting grasp.

"There, now there's no need to cry," Arthur says, pausing to clear his scratchy throat. When Alfred has been satisfied, Arthur directs his attention to Matthew's bandages and jokes wryly, "I leave the boys in your care for a few hours, and you return them to me in physically and emotionally compromised conditions."

"Ha-ha," Francis growls flatly. He can't pretend he doesn't hold some of the blame for this situation, but he needs to state his case before his husband subjects him to a night on the couch. "I didn't want this to happen."

Arthur nods his head and coughs. "I know it can be trying."

"But you somehow do it every day."

"That doesn't mean I don't make mistakes constantly. Don't be so hard on yourself."

He's right. Neither of them are without their flaws.

Francis lets out a tense breath he's been holding for a while and says, "Thank you. I'd kiss you, but I'd rather not share in your virus."

Arthur chuckles and twists his lips into a crooked smirk. "What? You're scared of a few germs?"

" _Oui_ , I'm working on an important project at work, and I can't afford to be ill right now," Francis retorts before setting Matthew on the ground and sending him off to play with Alfred.

"Frankly, I'm offended," Arthur jibes, muffling a sneeze into the crook of his elbow. "I thought you'd want to suffer together."

Francis rolls his eyes and pats Arthur's shoulder. "I'll make some tea for you and lunch for the boys. Are you hungry?"

"Not particularly."

"Well, you're going to eat anyway."

"Yes, mother."

"You're twice as snarky when ill," Francis observes, not terribly pleased with the discovery.

Suddenly, a little figure comes running into the kitchen, bunny at hand and a thumb in his mouth. "Dad?"

"Yes, Alfred?"

Alfred shuffles from foot to foot, eyes unable to settle in one place as he tries to find the right words. "Play?"

"Not at the moment, love. Play with Matthew."

"Matt is," Alfred takes a second to let the rest of the sentence find him, a technique he's been practicing, "doing home—homework."

Arthur directs another sneeze into his sleeve and says, "Perhaps later, then."

It's odd, Francis thinks, that Alfred is far more talkative when Arthur is nearby. He knows more words than he lets on.

"Alfred, how about you come over here and help me with lunch instead?" Francis suggests, eager to spend time with the boy. The extra interaction might do him some good.

Alfred purses his lips, loses his focus for a second, but then fights to get it back and says, "Okay."

"I'll leave you both to it, then," Arthur says, grabbing a wad of tissues off of the counter on his way out. "If you'll excuse me, I'll be upstairs, reading as I wait for this plague to pass."

Once the sound of the man's retreating footsteps fades, Francis smiles at Alfred and murmurs jokingly, "He's a diva, _non_?"

Alfred flashes him an understanding grin and makes a noise of agreement before getting the bread out of the cupboard for Francis. "Cookie?"

"No, no cookies until you've had lunch. Besides, you haven't been listening to Papa today, and boys that don't listen aren't allowed treats."

"Cookie, please?" Alfred pouts, jutting out his lip cutely. He's using his manners. How can Francis be strict now?

Francis tuts and says, "All right, _one_ cookie."

It's official, he's a pushover. His thoughts are confirmed when Arthur successfully gets Matthew to ride a bike in a single try.

* * *

It's the mundane moments that have the most potential for bringing surprises.

"We won't be long. You aren't feeling any worse, are you?"

"I'm fine, Francis."

Matthew needs a new pair of sneakers for school, since he's outgrown his old ones, and with Arthur still on the mend, Francis has volunteered to take the boy to the mall and get some shopping done. He'd rather not leave Arthur alone and in charge of Alfred when he's still unwell, but Alfred's made it clear he doesn't want to go out. In fact, he's been attached to Arthur's hip for over a day now, refusing to leave his side. It's endearing, but also an occasional hassle, seeing as Francis can't get the boy to eat his dinner or take his bath without some pleading.

"Okay," Francis concedes, shrugging into his jacket. "Take care of Daddy for me, Alfred."

And so, Arthur puts on the television in the living room and gets comfortable on the couch while Alfred sits on the carpet in front of him and plays with his action figures. Every now and then, the boy will raise his eyes to look at the TV screen, intrigued by the cheesy soap opera that's on.

"Wait, Harold," Alfred mutters, repeating one of the character's lines. "I was… made to love you."

"I thought this dreadful series ended last season," Arthur huffs, but he's not motivated enough to cross the room to change the channel. Besides, there probably isn't anything much better on at this time.

"Made to love you," Alfred says again, twisting one of the arms of his action figure with a distant expression on his face. "Love you to the moon and back, Alfred."

He's quoting Francis now.

"Moon and back. Made to love you."

"Alfred?"

Alfred breaks out of his daze and looks to him. His eye contact is improving somewhat. "Take care of Daddy."

"Yes, thank you for looking after me, my boy," Arthur encourages him with a fond smile.

Alfred snaps his eyes away again and bites his lower lip. "Daddy… Daddy, made to love you." '

Arthur frowns and tries to decode what the boy is getting at. It's hard to make out what he's saying when his head is bowed and facing the floor.

"To the moon and back. Made to love Daddy."

Oh… _Oh_.

Arthur chides his sluggish mind for not putting it together sooner. Once again, the boy has rendered him speechless by doing something unprecedented. He's trying to show affection—not unlike the woman on TV and how Francis showers the boys with sweet nothings. He's trying to connect—trying to say "I love you," but unable to say it in the traditional way. He's doing it his way, the Alfred way.

Seven years, and Arthur has never managed to get Alfred to return any gesture or word of affection until now. His throat clamps down on itself as a result. If he wasn't still ridden with this blasted cold, he'd take the boy into his arms and hug him.

"I love you, Alfred, to the moon and back," Arthur tells him hurriedly, trying to let the boy know the feeling is mutual before it's too late. Unfortunately, the words don't seem to register with Alfred, even when he repeats himself. He's in one of his daydreams—lost in a reality Arthur will never be able to fully comprehend.

Arthur sighs, and hopes Alfred knows he's very, very loved. Sometimes, he's not sure he does.

* * *

 _1978_

The driveway transforms into a landscape of color before their eyes. Armed with a bucket full of sidewalk chalk and two runaway imaginations, Matthew and Alfred have been busy developing their artistic visions. They're drawing an abstract piece mottled with blue and red streaks that don't really represent anything but look pleasing to the eye nonetheless.

"Needs more red," Matthew says, fishing a stick of scarlet chalk out of the bucket. It's supposed to rain tonight, so they want to finish drawing before all of their efforts are washed away in the drizzle.

"More blue!" Alfred says, coloring excitedly.

"Sure."

It's a team effort, and they're getting along well, especially since Alfred's been communicating more. On some days, it's hard to get him to _stop_ talking.

"You wanna make the purple mountains?" Matthew asks.

"Yeah."

"And let's make the clouds pink like cotton candy."

Alfred nods, and does what he almost always does when he's in a good mood; he sings (much to Matthew's chagrin).

"Ob-la-di, ob-la-da."

Matthew wouldn't be so irritated by it if his brother would at least attempt to sing a different song, but he's starting to tolerate Alfred's strange quirks. If you can't beat 'em, join 'em.

"Life goes on, brah. La, la, how the life goes on," Matthew adds, unable to contain the feeling of cheer in his heart when he sees Alfred laugh and clap his hands.

"Is he retarded or something?" a voice cuts in, and Matthew jerks his head up.

On the sidewalk, at the end of the driveway, two children hover like wasps. Matthew recognizes them as the brother and sister that live just up the block. The sister, whom Matthew's fairly sure is younger, has a jump rope in her hands. The brother, who looks to be about eleven or twelve, does all of the speaking.

Seething, Matthew quickly gets to his feet and stands in front of Alfred, shielding him.

"What's your problem? Leave us alone," Matthew tells them in what he hopes is a threatening tone. His legs are shaking, but he manages to stay rooted in place.

The brother sneers. He's much larger in stature compared to Matthew. He turns to his sister and says with a cackle, "Careful, Sophie. You don't want to catch the stupid."

"Shut up!" Matthew shouts, and now he's positive everyone can tell he's shaking. "Take it back! D-Don't talk about Alfred like that!"

"They're gonna take him away, you know," the boy goes on, a menacing look in his gray eyes. "As soon as he's older and people see how dangerous he is, they'll lock him up forever."

"You're lying! Alfred isn't dangerous."

"They're gonna do what they did to old General Anderson when he came back crazy from Vietnam—they'll shock his brain, so it becomes normal and—"

"Stop! Stop it!"

"And then he'll be a potato that can't do anything for himself. He won't remember you or your gay parents—"

Matthew gives the older boy an ineffective shove, making matters worse.

The boy raises a fist to strike Matthew back, but he never gets a chance to land the hit because Alfred barrels into him and knocks him to the concrete.

"See? I told you he was a whacko!" the boy screeches, throwing himself back onto his feet before trapping Alfred in a chokehold.

"Let him go!" Matthew begs, trying to yank at the boy's arms to loosen his grip as Alfred flounders about, trying to gasp for breath. "Dad! Papa! Help!"

The front door of the house flies open, and Papa chases the children off with barked threats. Alfred is set free, and he makes a wheezy, rasping noise as he sucks in a large breath of air, stunned.

Dad is close behind, and he hurries over to Alfred to make sure he's okay. "Alfred? Poppet, look at me. Are you all right?"

Alfred's bewildered blue eyes stare off into space, and he doesn't waste any time before withdrawing into the safety of his mind.

"Alfred," Dad prompts, putting a hand on his shoulder. "Answer me, Alfred. Are you all right?"

"Is—is he r-retarded?" Alfred begins to mimic, breathing hard. "Y-You always ruin everything. Retard. R-Retard."

"Shh, it's okay now."

"Catch the stupid. Sophie, don't catch the stupid."

Dad flinches and squeezes his eyes shut. "My boy, don't listen to any of that nonsense. It's meaningless."

"T-Take me away. Take him away. Dangerous. Shock brain," Alfred continues restlessly, fidgeting.

"No one is taking you away from us, love. Let's go inside, and you can have a snack, hmm?" Dad offers, his voice a little higher in pitch than it normally is. "You, too, Matthew."

But Matthew's more interested in what Papa's doing. The man's storming down the length of the driveway, hands balled up into fists by his sides as he advances up the block, a terrifying expression of unrestrained anger on his face.

Dad makes quick note of it as well. "Francis! Where do you think you're going?"

"To have a word with the parents."

"No, you will not! Come back here!"

Papa doesn't stop, and even though Dad looks like he wants to chase after him, he chooses to stay back. "Daft, idiot," he grumbles once he's set out some juice and fruit on the kitchen table for the boys to munch on. "What does he think he's going to accomplish?"

"What's Papa going to do?" Matthew asks, also concerned.

They don't have to speculate for much longer because fifteen minutes later, there's a knock at the door, and Dad goes to answer it, brows furrowed as he scowls.

Standing in the doorway is a dejected Papa, but that's not what has Dad furious.

Beside Papa, there are two austere looking police officers in uniforms.


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** There's one more chapter left after this one! Enjoy!

* * *

"We apologize for the disturbance, officers. Francis can be overzealous at times."

"Threatening a mother of two and calling her an 'old hag who raises pigs rather than children' is more than overzealous," one of the officers says, but he releases Papa and lets him come back into the house anyway.

"I did not threaten her, and the part about how she disciplines her children was a factual statement," Papa counters, and Dad's frown somehow grows even deeper, reaching new levels of displeasure.

Ignoring Papa, Dad forces a polite smile and says, "It won't happen again."

But the policemen don't seem willing to leave right away. They try to take a good look at the house from where they're standing at the front door and then cast Papa and Dad a critical, scathing look.

"There's still the matter regarding," the officer pauses and his lips curl, "your son. Mrs. Johnson's boy claims he was attacked by your child."

Papa gives the officer another reason to dislike him as he interrupts and says, " _He_ was attacked? Why don't you ask him about how he put his hands on Alfred?"

Dad quickly adds, "Alfred is ill, and he doesn't always recognize the difference between right and wrong. He felt provoked, and he reacted poorly to the situation. We will be sure to speak with him—"

The officers don't look to be very compassionate or understanding, and one of them, a taller man with silver hair interjects, "Sir, we've spoken to a number of individuals in the area, and they all agree your son might be better in a health care facility that is specialized and has a trained staff to deal with cases of mental illness."

Dad responds by looking like he's just been forced to swallow a lemon. "With all due respect, as Alfred's legal guardian, I don't think that's necessary at the present time."

"We've also received reports that his… family arrangement may not be adequate."

Papa jumps in again. "And where did you get that information from? Alfred is a happy boy with a loving home."

The silver-haired officer shakes his head and says, "We've gotten complaints regarding noise."

Dad clutches the doorknob of the front door tightly and explains, "Alfred is autistic. He has outbursts on occasion but—"

"Sir, is Alfred getting medical attention for his condition?"

Dad takes in a breath to steady himself and replies, "He has received some behavioral therapy in the past, and he sees our family doctor regularly."

"But he isn't taking any medication or seeing a health care professional on at least a weekly basis?" the officer asks.

"Well, no, but—"

The officer's partner writes something down on a notepad and says, "We'll be following up on the situation."

Dad becomes very pale. "But—"

"Someone will be around in about two weeks for further questions. If you have any concerns, they'll be able to talk to you."

The officers finally leave, and Dad shuts the door, green eyes wide with worry. He's completely still and silent for a full minute before he turns to Papa and shouts, "You _idiot_! Look what you've caused!"

Matthew shudders at how scary Dad's voice is, and he can see Alfred react similarly from beside him. They both look up at their parents, but neither Dad nor Papa notice their presence.

"He had our son in a _chokehold_. I was supposed to pretend it didn't happen?" Papa snaps.

"So a police investigation is better than holding your tongue? Imagine what this'll do to Alfred. Do you want him to be put in a hospital for god knows how long?" Dad growls back, a living nest of nerves.

"Maybe they're right, Arthur. Maybe they will be able to help Alfred in ways we can't," Papa says softly.

No one moves. The air is so tense they can hardly breathe. They could hear a pin drop.

Until Dad completely loses it.

"Have you gone _mad_? Do you know how autism is treated? I can take care of Alfred a thousand times better."

"Except he's still having fits."

"That's far better than the alternative."

Alfred's eyes shimmer, and, a moment later, he's crying and has big tears dribbling down the sides of his nose.

Dad's tone instantly becomes milder, and he encases Alfred in a protective hug. "Shh, shh. We'll figure something out. Alfred, it's okay. It's going to be okay, I promise."

"Take him away," Alfred gasps, shaking even harder. "I don't want to go."

"I know, my boy. I'm going to do everything in my power to make certain that doesn't happen. I won't let anyone hurt you," Dad vows, pressing a comforting kiss to Alfred's brow.

"Arthur, at least consider—" Papa mumbles.

"No," Dad cuts in roughly. "I'm not having this discussion with you. Alfred's staying here—at home—where he should be."

* * *

Alfred isn't hard to talk to once you know how to approach him. Matthew has learned this through nuances. There's value in simply observing things, and when Alfred has him frustrated or does something irritating, Matthew lets out a long wisp of breath and tries to get himself to understand better. If he allows himself to be patient—to give Alfred the chance to speak and elaborate on thoughts, it's a lot easier to connect with him, and Matthew's amazed by how much he's able to learn about his brother by just listening and watching more often.

For example, Alfred has an aversion to action movies or thriller television shows. At least, that's what Matthew thinks it is until he digs a little deeper. It's not the content of the film or show that puts him on edge, rather, it's the loud clanging, shouting, and spontaneous clicks and bangs which scare him. Alfred responds by covering his ears, and, depending on the day, will either cry or have an aggressive meltdown, so Matthew makes sure everything they watch together is audience friendly, even if it means having to sacrifice some of the interesting drama found in a crime series or a superhero film.

And if sacrificing a certain genre of movies keeps Alfred happy, Matthew doesn't mind. He's come to accept there are times when he should put his brother first. Unfortunately, he realizes a little too late he probably should've mentioned his discovery to Dad and Papa because they don't seem to be aware of any of this. Either they haven't noticed Alfred's hypersensitivity to sound, or they haven't linked his tantrums to his sensory pain yet.

On a Tuesday afternoon, Dad's in the kitchen, watering the flowers on the windowsill when his casserole starts burning because he set the temperature of the oven to the wrong degree, and the fire alarm goes off. Matthew watches the fiasco unfold, thinking about how angry Papa will be when he comes home to a charred dinner and a house smelling of burnt meat and vegetables.

Dad makes quick work of the scene by turning off the oven and opening all of the windows to let the stench out, but the fire alarm blares heedlessly along, and Alfred grows more and more anxious from the living room. He chews on his bottom lip, holds onto his bunny firmly, and paces about the house, taking uneven breath after uneven breath. Seconds pass, and he cries out in physical pain, jerking and flinching with each additional beep of the alarm.

At last, Dad gets the alarm to stop its shrill refrain, but by then, Alfred is already beside himself, shoulders drawn in towards his chest and eyes the size of saucers. Dad apologizes and tries to defuse everything, but Alfred doesn't look like he's hearing anything of what Dad is saying to him.

Matthew can't help feeling sad as Alfred whimpers and plasters his hands to his ears, trying to drown out the sound that's still ringing through their brains.

"It stopped, Al. It's over," Matthew reassures him, but again, it doesn't go through. He looks to Dad instead and says, "He doesn't like the sound. It hurts him."

"Hurts him?" Dad asks, and now _his_ face is the one that darkens with realization. "Oh, Alfred. I'm sorry."

Alfred makes a screeching noise, as though repeating the noise from the alarm, and walks around the kitchen, grunting and shrieking to himself. Dad reaches out a hand to touch his shoulder, and when he does, something in Alfred's eyes flares with red, hot anger, and he spins around and smacks Dad's hand away.

"Alfred!" Dad scolds him, but he isn't listening. "No hitting!"

Alfred mutters some made up words under his breath and blinks rapidly before dropping to the ground and breaking down in tears and unabated screams. Dad crouches down next to him and tries to get him to relax, and as he's doing so, Alfred pounds a fist against the tiled floor and kicks out his feet in a haphazard thrust, almost as though he wants to be freed out of his own skin.

"Calm down. Everything's fine," Dad orders, and he's not the only one who's confused by Alfred's behavior. Normally, the tantrums are over by now.

But Matthew can tell Alfred isn't the same Alfred he used to be a few weeks ago. He's angrier and more erratic. The stuff that was said to him by those other kids has left its mark, and Alfred can't seem to shake himself out of his frightened mindset. Every day, he asks Dad and Papa if he's going to be sent away, and every day, they have to tell him he won't be. The stress has been building.

And now they're cracking because of it.

"Enough, Alfred. You know better than to behave this way," Dad continues, carefully pulling Alfred up by his arms and into a standing position. Alfred puts up a fight, and has the fire in him to knock down one of the wooden chairs by the kitchen table in the struggle. It just so happens that the chair lands directly on Dad's left foot, and Dad barely stops himself from letting out a long string of colorful phrases that Matthew knows shouldn't be used in the house.

This seems to finally pull Alfred out of his tirade, and he looks guiltily toward Dad, watching as he lifts the chair back to its original position and rubs one hand over his injured foot.

"Dad? Are you okay?" Matthew asks, taken aback.

Dad takes in a quick, razor-sharp breath and says, "I'll be fine."

Alfred stops making a fuss, but his face stays red as he waits to see what Dad will do next. He looks like he's preparing to be yelled at, but Dad stays calm and tells him to stand in the corner for ten minutes. Then, he tries to salvage the remains of the charred casserole, but it seems increasingly likely they'll be eating out tonight.

He checks the clock, calls Papa's number at work, and solemnly mutters, "Francis? We've had a casualty in terms of dinner."

Matthew hides a smile behind his hand when he hears Papa respond on the other line, "Why am I not surprised?"

* * *

"The boys are sleep," Arthur announces before rolling into bed next to Francis with an airy sigh. "I'm relieved this day is finally over."

Francis sets aside the magazine he's been reading and hums sympathetically. "Trouble with Alfred?"

"Trouble with everything."

"Oh, my poor _cher_ ," Francis replies with a teasing lilt, reaching out a hand to brush the hair away from Arthur's forehead. "Hopefully, tomorrow will be better."

"Yes, one can only hope," Arthur agrees, letting his eyes slide shut. "He was doing so well, and now—I can't help but feel it's getting worse again."

Francis frowns but doesn't say anything, most likely because he knows Arthur isn't going to like what's on his mind. He mulls over his own thoughts for a moment, and as his eyes wander around the bedroom, something unexpected catches his attention. "Arthur?"

"Mmm?"

"What happened to your foot?"

Arthur blinks languidly, looks at the foot in question, and mumbles, "It's nothing. I was merely clumsy."

"It's bruised."

"So it is."

Francis leans forward to get a closer look and gives Arthur a skeptical glare. "Are you sure that's what happened?"

"Francis, please. It's nothing to concern yourself over."

"I can tell when you're lying to me. We've been together for over eleven years."

"Where does the time go?"

"Stop changing the subject," Francis persists. "Tell me what really happened."

Arthur groans and reluctantly peels one eye open. "Alfred knocked over a chair. My foot was an unfortunate victim. It was an accident."

"And so why did you feel the need to cover that up?"

"Because it was hardly worth mentioning. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep," Arthur huffs, pulling the covers up and over himself. "Goodnight."

" _Bon nuit, mon amour_."

Francis switches off the bedside lamp and gets comfortable as well. He wraps an arm around Arthur's waist and waits for him to protest, but Arthur's already in a deep sleep and doesn't seem to have a care in the world for how Francis is using him as a body pillow.

They're hardly asleep for two hours when they're woken up by the sound of crying. Unsurprisingly, it seems like the wails are coming from Alfred.

Arthur moans miserably into the sheets before dragging himself up like a corpse rising from the dead. He shuffles across the room, and Francis follows him, unwilling to let Arthur be the only martyr. They step into the boys' bedroom and see Alfred sobbing into a cocoon of blankets, while Matthew tries to talk to him long enough to figure out what's wrong.

"Did you have a nightmare, poppet?" Arthur asks in between a yawn.

Alfred nods his head, and Arthur promptly kneels next to him and pecks the crown of his head. "It was just a dream. Go back to sleep."

But it's not that simple. It's never that simple.

Francis places himself next to the two, smooths Alfred's hair, and begins to sing, " _Dodo, l'enfant do,_ _  
_ _l'enfant dormira bien vite_."

Singing is always a sure fire remedy for the boy, and Alfred stills within minutes, peacefully dozing off once more.

Francis allows himself a prideful smile and whispers to Arthur, "That's the way it's done."

Arthur rolls his eyes, tucks both of the twins in for the second time that night, and makes the trek back to the other bedroom. "What were you singing anyway?"

"The baby will be sleeping soon," Francis translates coolly as they crawl back into bed. "In all seriousness, we need to do something about this, Arthur. You're right, it's getting worse, and we can't do this by ourselves."

"I don't want—" Arthur begins, but Francis draws him up short with a click of the tongue.

"I know. We won't send him to any hospital or facility, but let's at least see if we can get him some more counseling or something along those lines. It can't hurt, and maybe Alfred will be better off because of it."

Arthur purses his lips in thought. "All right. I'll think about it."

Francis smiles and dusts a kiss onto his temple. "That's all I ask."

* * *

When a willowy woman with thick-rimmed glasses shows up at the doorstep, it's an arrival without warning. She declares she's in charge of the dreaded follow-up concerning Alfred and comes parading into the house in a hurricane of authority, pausing every second or so to scratch a note into her leather-bound journal.

"I'd like to ask Alfred a few questions, if you don't mind," she says, and though Francis and Arthur aren't too thrilled with the request, they interrupt Alfred from where he is practicing addition and subtraction with Matthew at the coffee table in the living room.

Arthur introduces the woman to Alfred, and Alfred hesitantly shakes her hand, obviously quite scared and intimidated by her presence.

"Could we talk in private?" the woman asks, and after a heavy moment, Arthur and Francis leave the room and take Matthew with them into the kitchen. They don't speak to one another, and the anticipation is palpable until Arthur says he's going to make tea and sets the kettle on the stove, effectively breaking the trance.

Francis leans an elbow on the counter and makes a conscious effort to stop himself from tapping his foot. "How long do you think this is going to take?"

"I don't know. It'll be remarkable if she gets a word out of Alfred when he's in this state," Arthur replies.

Everyone jumps up slightly when the woman comes traipsing into the kitchen with a practiced smile on her face. Some of her lipstick gets stuck to her otherwise pristine teeth when she concludes, "I think it'd be a good idea to have Alfred go in for an evaluation by one of our recommended psychologists."

Arthur frowns. "He's already been seen by a specialist in the past, and he's been diagnosed with autism. I have all of his medical records."

"Yes, but with his recent aggressive behavior, it would be best to have it done again," the woman says.

Francis puts a hand on Arthur's back when he sees him tense.

"Okay," Arthur glumly agrees, shrugging the hand away. "We'll take him for another evaluation."

And so, that's how Alfred and Arthur find themselves sitting in the waiting room of a stuffy office filled to the brim with other children and their parents. As most of the children busy themselves with playing or chattering amongst themselves, Alfred sits on Arthur's lap and refuses to go anywhere near them, overwhelmed by all of the social stimuli.

It's a bit of a wait, but Alfred's name finally gets called, and he clings to Arthur with renewed fervor, cowering away from the medical assistant. Arthur responds by carrying him inside and offering him a warm smile of encouragement.

The psychologist is a middle aged man wearing what Alfred would consider "normal people clothes," but he's not as formidable as the woman who visited their house was. He comes up to them and introduces himself, and Alfred is forced to shake his hand. He has a friendly and approachable demeanor about him, but Alfred would rather not take his chances just yet. Thus, he stays in Arthur's arms.

"It's nice to meet you, Alfred," the psychologist says with a pearly grin. "You don't have to be afraid—I don't bite. We're going to have fun today. I have all of these toys here, and you can play with whichever ones you'd like."

Alfred turns his gaze away and curls his hands into fists, gripping Arthur's sweater. He buries his face into his father's chest and mumbles, "Take away?"

Arthur shakes his head and sets Alfred down on the ground. He pushes back the boy's bangs with his thumb and says, "The psychologist just wants to talk, okay? I'll be here the whole time."

"P-Promise?"

"I promise."

The psychologist takes that as his cue to put a hand on Alfred's shoulder and guide him over to where the various activities are set up, ranging from puzzle games to memorization exercises. Fortunately, Alfred warms up to the man quickly, and Arthur watches the scene from a chair set up in the corner of the room. It's actually quite nice to see the boy opening up to a new person.

For a full thirty minutes, Alfred plays the games the psychologist puts together for him, and he even lets out a few peals of laughter every now and then, especially when he gets to make believe he's a superhero saving the town from turmoil.

At the end of the session, the psychologist gives Alfred a lollipop, and the boy demonstrates his manners by muttering a soft, "Thank you."

"You're very welcome," the psychologist smiles. "I'm just going to talk to your dad for a few minutes, and then you'll be free to go, okay?"

Alfred smiles back. "Okay."

A little anxious himself, Arthur stands up and waits for the man's verdict while Alfred rolls the lollipop around in his mouth and waits nearby. He's mentally prepared to hear the worst possible news.

The psychologist surprises him by announcing the exact opposite. "I think Alfred would benefit a lot from the new programs being instituted in schools for children with his kind of disability. These programs are still in their early stages, but they have potential for being a great socializing tool, and the more you can get Alfred to engage with other children, the better. It should also help with some of the behavioral issues he's having. I'll give you a list of the schools you should look into for next year. There are a lot of educational reforms coming into effect, and they're worth giving a try."

Arthur blinks down at the list the psychologist gives him and nods, relieved that the man isn't interested in admitting Alfred into any facilities for care. "Thank you very much."

"My pleasure. I'd like to see him again in six months to see if he's improving," the psychologist adds before looking over to Alfred with another grin. "Goodbye, Alfred! Be good!"

Alfred takes the lollipop out of his mouth and happily says, "Bye!"

Arthur can't even begin to express how relieved he is, and for the first time in a long while, it feels like he and Francis don't have to handle this alone anymore. There's help out there, and they'll do whatever is necessary to ensure Alfred gets the best and safest treatment.

There's hope.


	5. Chapter 5

Author's Note: Here's the final chapter! Thank you so much to everyone who has supported this story, and thanks especially to **peppermenttea** on Tumblr for the awesome request! :) Stay wonderful, guys.

* * *

It's like any other classroom—oak wood desks, a chalk-dust speckled blackboard, colorful, motivational quotes taped onto the walls to make everything seem brighter and welcoming.

Alfred, however, isn't impressed. A second after he walks into the room with Papa and Dad on either side of him, he makes an about face and tries to leave, dreading the thought of being deposited here for half of the day.

"Where do you think you're going, young man?" Dad asks, snatching him by the strap of his blue backpack. "You said you wanted to go to school just as Matthew does, so why the sudden change of heart?"

Alfred's eyes scan the classroom, picking out all of the horrible possibilities that might come with sharing the same space with so many strangers. He bites his lip, wipes his sweating palms over his jeans, and mumbles, "I want to go home."

Papa and Dad exchange glances, trying to find the best and most empathetic way to approach this.

"But, _mon chou_ , don't you at least want to give school a chance?" Papa asks, petting Alfred's hair. "Your father and I will be right here to pick you up in a few hours."

A few hours is a long time—plenty of time for him to be miserable. He forces back his tears because he doesn't want to be a baby about this, but what will the other kids think of him? What if they point and laugh? They'll see that he can't talk, and they'll know he's strange.

He's pulled into Dad's arms and sinks into the embrace, burying his face in his father's chest to hide all of the emotions he's feeling.

"It won't be so bad. You'll see," Dad whispers, rubbing his back. "We wouldn't have brought you here if we didn't think you were ready."

"But—"

"Trust us, Alfred."

Alfred sniffles and doesn't say anything back.

"Look at me."

It's hard, but he finds the green eyes and fights the urge to pull his gaze away.

"You're stronger and cleverer than you think. Don't give up now," Dad says.

He gets another reassuring pat on the back from Papa this time and realizes he's going to be stuck in school whether he likes it or not because neither Dad nor Papa is wavering.

He finds an empty desk and claims it. Papa and Dad wave goodbye to him one last time from the doorway and leave.

The teacher is a sweet woman with curly hair and freckles, and she gives the first assignment of the day, which is to introduce oneself to the closest student.

Heart beating so hard all he can hear is the blood rushing through his ears, Alfred turns to his left, sees a girl with a butterfly pin in her hair, and nervously says, "H-Hi, I'm Alfred."

The girl smiles shyly, and he is relieved to see she is just as anxious as he is. She, too, struggles to make words and sentences sound right. He knows the feeling all too well. It's good to know he's not the only one with the problem.

The teacher grins at them both from the front of the room, and Alfred promises himself he'll do his best to make this whole school thing work out.

* * *

 _1985_

"Arthur, we have a problem."

"What is it now?"

"Mathieu is having trouble in school."

"Matthew? Our Matthew?"

Francis rolls his eyes dramatically. "No, the Mathieu from five miles away—of course _our_ Mathieu!"

Arthur is stunned for almost an entire minute. The same Matthew who used to live and breathe for school? The Matthew who never brought home any grade lower than a very rare B plus?

"Did he fail an exam?"

"Maybe he should be the one to explain," Francis suggests, unwilling to give away too much too soon.

Arthur reconsiders the news and says, "Maybe we shouldn't scold him, in that case. Everyone does poorly now and then. I'm sure it won't happen again."

Francis snorts. "You won't think that way for long."

Genuinely curious, Arthur gets right to investigating. "Matthew! Come downstairs!" he calls, putting on a stern expression.

Except, while they expect Matthew to come sauntering into the kitchen, Alfred arrives in his place instead.

"Last time I checked, your name isn't Matthew," Arthur remarks dryly. "Where's your brother?"

"Is he in trouble?" Alfred asks, and it's amazing how much he has grown up in just a few years. Fifteen years old, and he already has the figure of a young man, tall and lean despite his childish tendencies.

His speech has also made welcome progress, but, in a way, it hurts to see him become more independent. Things were simpler when he was tiny and getting him to speak in sentences was laborious.

" _Oui_ , he is in trouble," Francis confirms, arms folded. "Tell him to come in here right now."

Alfred frowns. "He said to tell you he's in the shower."

"I don't hear the water running," Arthur notes, suspicious.

"W-Well, that's because he's not in the shower yet… but he's in the bathroom, getting ready to shower."

Arthur blinks at the boy and raises a brow. "Tell him I'm not playing games. If he isn't sitting at this table in five minutes, he's going to be in twice as much trouble."

"Five minutes, twice as much trouble," Alfred repeats, and it's the one habit they haven't been able to curb. "Five minutes."

"That's right. Please inform him," Arthur states, mentally planning a lecture.

Alfred disappears again, and the five minute countdown begins. It's a close-call, but Matthew appears just in time with Alfred trailing after him.

"You're in trouble," Alfred tells Matthew innocently once they reach the table.

"I know," Matthew grumbles back. "You can leave now."

Francis is quick to jump in. "I don't think so. Alfred has just as much of a right to be in this conversation. I want you to explain to your father what you've been doing in English class for this past month."

"We've been reading _Of Mice and Men_ ," Matthew mutters, shoulders slumped.

Arthur draws his brows together so close that they're almost touching. "And what's the issue?"

Matthew looks to Francis, sees his severe glower, and says, "I might have asked Alfred to… read the book for me and write my homework responses."

Part of Arthur is furious Matthew came up with such a scheme. The other part is ecstatic that Alfred is reading literature. He turns to Alfred, stamps out his conflicting emotions, and asks, "Is that true?"

Alfred stares at his lap and hums a noncommittal "mmm."

"Answer me properly."

"Yes."

"Why did you do Matthew's assignments for him?" Arthur asks.

Matthew offers the first explanation. "He didn't mind doing it, I swear. He—"

"I asked Alfred," Arthur interjects.

Alfred twiddles his thumbs and quotes the book, "'I got you to look after me, and you got me to look after you, that's why.'"

Arthur sighs. "I know you were trying to look out for your brother, but he should know better than to take advantage of you like this. You have your own schoolwork to concern yourself with."

Francis nods in agreement. "Matthew has been doing poorly on his reading quizzes as a result, even though he's been handing in the homework. What do you have to say for yourself, young man?"

Matthew purses his lips, looks over at Alfred, and murmurs, "I'm sorry, Al."

"It's okay, Matt," Alfred immediately replies with a gleaming smile, eyes unable to focus on one spot. "Dad?"

"Yes, my boy?"

"C-Can I still finish reading the book?"

Arthur nods. "Certainly, but I don't want you doing Matthew's work for him anymore. Am I clear?"

"Uh-huh," Alfred says happily, bobbing his head.

"Good. Matthew, your papa and I will discuss an adequate punishment later."

In a last ditch effort, Matthew says, "He's too willing to help, Dad. It's kind of his fault, too."

Arthur and Francis don't buy it.

"Am I in trouble?" Alfred asks worriedly.

"Yes," Arthur says, tone softening. "You're guilty of being too good to your brother."

Alfred smiles. That's a nice thing to be in trouble for.

* * *

The night Alfred drops a job application on the coffee table, Arthur has no idea how to react.

"I want to work during the summer," the teen says, adamant, and while Arthur admires the boy for wanting to make some extra money on the side, he isn't sure if this is the best thing for him at the moment.

"Alfred, having a job is a big responsibility."

"I know."

"You're certain this is what you want?"

Alfred's gaze flickers away for a moment, but he reels it back in. He's been trying so hard to work on his presentation skills. "Y-Yes."

"Okay. I'll talk to Papa about this before I agree to anything."

"I can work," Alfred insists, and Arthur can see the muscles in his throat contract. "I'm… I'm n-not dumb."

Arthur puts down the book he was reading and pats the empty spot on the couch next to him. "Come, sit."

Alfred obediently plops himself down and looks owlishly at Arthur. It seems like he's getting bigger each day, and Arthur wishes he could somehow stop him. He wants his son to work and continue his education, so he can eventually begin his own life, but at the same time, the world that's waiting for him isn't as compassionate as it could be, and he doesn't want the boy to get hurt. He needs someone to look after him.

Alfred will never be able to completely manage on his own, and it's a revelation that becomes clearer for Arthur and Francis with each passing day. While Matthew will go to college, find a stable career, and possibly have a family someday, Alfred may never be able to do the same. The boy has made some improvements, but he will always be autistic, and he will always need a guiding hand.

It isn't fair, and it kills Arthur inside to have to think of his son in this way—to accept he will miss out on many of life's simple beauties.

"I worry about you, but you know that already," Arthur begins slowly. "I want you to live a happy and fulfilling life, but I also want you to be safe, which is why I'm not sure you should be going to work just yet. Maybe you should wait a few more years. What's the rush?"

"I want to."

"Why do you want to work?"

"Everybody does it."

"Well, not everybody. You don't have to feel pressured to—"

"You can be whatever you want, Alfred. Autism doesn't define. Be whatever you want," Alfred mutters, rocking back and forth slightly. "Yes, Ms. Cassidy. Doesn't define. Doesn't define."

Ms. Cassidy is the boy's teacher this year, and Alfred has been quoting her for a while now, which is indicative of how much he seems to like her.

"That's right, Alfred. You can be anything you choose," Arthur concedes, but he knows this isn't entirely true. There are very limited options in terms of what jobs are available to those with the degree of autism that Alfred has. Employment isn't a simple matter for individuals with disabilities, but getting hired is only half the battle. There's also potential discrimination from both the staff and the general public.

He doesn't want Alfred to have to think about these things, but they're an ugly reality.

Alfred seems to have an idea of what's on Arthur's mind because he says, "Don't worry."

Arthur smiles sadly. There's a pain in his chest that won't go away. "I'll always worry… I'm very proud of you. I think it's wonderful that you're being your own person."

As promised, he talks about it with Francis right before turning in, and though neither of them are particularly pleased with having to loosen their reigns on Alfred, they do it anyway.

Three weeks later, when Alfred finds out he got the position of being a cashier at a local arts and crafts store, he's on cloud nine, completely delighted. A day after the school term is over, he gets up at seven in the morning, dresses himself in a freshly pressed shirt, khakis, and the obligatory vest he's required to wear as part of his uniform. The store is within walking distance, and Arthur and Francis watch him go off, a heavy weight on their shoulders.

"He'll be okay," Francis assures, trying to convince them both.

Arthur swallows around the rock in his throat. "I'll go and see him at the end of his shift."

"He knows it won't be easy, but he wants to be like everyone else."

"He is like everyone else," Arthur retorts, hating the icy feeling in his veins. "Maybe I should head down there in an hour just to check on—"

" _Mon dieu_ , don't embarrass him on his first day."

"I'm not going to embarrass him!"

"Your presence is enough. No one wants their father to come strolling into their workplace. Leave him alone," Francis argues. "He's a good boy. He'll manage."

But that doesn't stop Arthur from staring at the clock for the rest of the day. He's overcome with anxiety for the boy, wondering every minute whether or not he's faring well. What if he's having a horrible day? What if he gets in trouble with the manager or gets harassed by a customer? What if someone makes a rude comment?

A quarter to six o'clock, Arthur ignores Francis's warnings and heads down to the store. He stands just outside, waiting impatiently for Alfred to finish, so he can make sure his child is physically and emotionally whole. Sure enough, Alfred comes trotting through the double doors soon, still dressed in his uniform and, thankfully, still smiling.

Arthur rushes over to him and gives him a hug. "How was your first day?"

"What're you doing here?"

"I came to make sure you're all right."

Instead of being annoyed, Alfred seems touched. He grins widely, cocks his head to the side, and says exuberantly, "I'm okay!"

"Thank the heavens," Arthur whispers under his breath, nearly toppling over with relief. "You didn't have any problems?"

"No. My boss said he—" Alfred fumbles briefly over his words, "—wishes all of his employees were as good as me."

Arthur makes a happy sound of disbelief and stares at Alfred with uncontained fondness. "I-I'm immensely glad to hear that."

Alfred looks at him with twinkling blue eyes and reaches out a hand to touch his face, his fingers brushing against skin. "Don't cry."

Sure enough, there's a wetness in his eyes and on his cheeks that Arthur hadn't noticed before. Ashamed, he quickly dries the evidence with the aid of his shirt sleeve and mutters a hasty apology for being such a sap. He feels blessed that Francis isn't here to see him make such a fool out of himself.

"Why're you sad?" Alfred asks him.

"I'm not sad," Arthur says, even though there are tears still dripping from his chin. "I'm just h-happy for you. You're becoming an adult, and I—"

Damn his fragile emotions. He's too overcome to continue, and Alfred has the audacity to actually _laugh_ at him. So many years of doing everything together—of learning and shouting and getting frustrated only to make amends once more—and now Alfred's old enough not to always need his hand to hold.

It hurts, and Arthur isn't sure how to make it stop.

Alfred hugs him around his middle and says, "Ob-la-di, ob-la-da."

"Life goes on," Arthur mumbles, hanging onto Alfred tightly. "You're scaring me with all of this growing up you've been doing."

"I'm sorry."

He allows himself a smile and shakes his head. "It's not your fault."

The gratitude, the recognition, and the _love_ in Alfred's eyes at that moment are what Arthur has waited years to bear witness to. The boy is fully present. He's entirely Alfred, and there isn't a single part of him that's hiding away in his mind.

"Dad?"

"Hmm?"

"Can we go home?"

Arthur takes in a short gasp of breath and breaks away from the hug, still feeling more than a little humiliated for acting like this. "Ah, yes, of course. You must be tired."

"Just hungry."

"Papa probably has dinner waiting on the table."

Not all of the boy's days will be so rosy and swell. Arthur knows this, but nonetheless, something tells him Alfred will deal with the harder moments just as gracefully. They may not have a plan for what comes next—for what will happen to them years down the line when he and Francis are as old as dirt, and the boys are well into adulthood.

But they've been figuring it out thus far, and he's sure they'll figure the rest out in due time.

After all, Alfred is not like other children.


End file.
